


Hard Times

by Spinifex



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Agnes Jurati - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Angst, CW: Drinking and smoking, Daystrom Institute, F/F, Fluff, Jean-Luc Picard - Freeform, Love at First Sight, Mirror Universe, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Outrageous Flirting, Pining, Romance, Space Heist of The Future, Space Pirate AU, Standard Flirting, alternating pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinifex/pseuds/Spinifex
Summary: Posting again, with more words and a better plan. Let's do this.A Star Trek Picard AU.
Relationships: Raffi Musiker/Seven of Nine
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

A beam-down.

Seven pulls the long edge of the scarf from around her shoulders, tugs it over her head to hide her neck and hair, the side of her face where the scars burrow deep into her skin. Careful not to let anything show. This is the first time she’s set foot on Terra in, oh, ages. A lifetime. Not since- she flinches away from the thought as her fingertips brush over her cheek. The ridge of metal like a frame around her eye, the edges where it meets her skin still tender and pinkish-red.

She folds the cloth around her cheeks, over her mouth and nose, tucking the edges away from curious eyes. Frankly she’s surprised the farm left any of her implants in, surprised that she even got out of there alive, with Icheb too. Even though he doesn't thank her for it. She shakes her arm out when she’s finished tweaking. They couldn’t find a limb that matched the one the farm had taken. So they took the least damaged-looking one, from an already long-dead female. No one Seven knew. She shuts her eyes and takes a breath. Counts backwards from three to one. The woman’s face is sharp in her mind, stark beneath her eyelids. She finds her center, but there’s no peace there. Just a weird, resigned sort of calm. It will do. Breathes out and starts again. Elnor helped her reattach it to the mangled socket in her shoulder. Not perfect, but functional and good enough. The ports and wires, the hard whine of the regenerator, quick and dirty because they had to go. Her fingers flex. Tug-tug-tug go the pistons. The new limb might never feel like it’s her own. She lets the hand fall to her side.

Elnor bounces on his toes and glances nervously towards the gap between buildings that marks the exit to their hiding place. A cul-de-sac of shadows that admittedly stinks of piss and misery, but as a hiding place for their discreet beam-down it gets the job done. His black hair shushes in its long half-braid. Nimble fingers with punch-bruised knuckles fluttering from the hilt of the dagger in his belt, the wraps of his sleeves, the sash at his waist and the dagger again. 

Seven sighs and tosses him a length of cloth from her pack, frowning as she does so. 

“Hey. Stop fidgeting and cover your ears. You don’t want to find out first hand what most Terrans are like,” she says. She often feels like his mother, worrying after him. Seven scoffs at the thought, recalling how well Icheb turned out. His sullen silences and one-word answers whenever she calls. He blames her for the farm and for the loss of his left eye. Another young one is the last thing she needs. 

Elnor looks at her over his shoulder, his voice low. 

“What are they like?” he wonders, his eyes curious, “most Terrans?”

Seven checks her hand terminal one last time then stands, slipping the device into her pocket and her pack over her shoulder as she rises from her crouch. It’s a few quick paces to the gap between walls and then she pokes her head out into the street. Not quite deserted, but near enough. Their new contact is waiting. 

She beckons Elnor forward to join her. Her good hand curls around his upper arm and squeezes gently. A little warning to be careful. He’ll understand.

“Volatile.”


	2. First Contact

A pretty blonde woman is paused, talking in a freeze-frame on Raffaella’s hand terminal. A short news clip attached to the message Cris sent her with a lazy wave of his fingers. He’s slouching in the chair opposite, less than one meter away. 

Raffi lifts an eyebrow at his laziness but turns her attention to the feed. The device projects the news clip as a small, vertical holographic screen. The image is just opaque enough to blur the world behind it from Raffi’s view. With her forefinger extended, she taps the screen once to make it play. 

The blonde unfreezes. ‘-prototype is still just in the early stages, but we’re making real breakthroughs in the field-’ she says, her eyes sparkling. Raffi doesn’t think she likes the look of her. Her small freckled nose with its upturned tip makes her appear puckish and innocent. Her cheekbones high and plump, her face framed by golden curls that would not look out of place on a cherub. A cute little creature who couldn’t possibly do anything wrong. But as she continues talking, Raffi reads an intellect and passion for her subject which tells of a hunger for discovery that should not be second-guessed.

Raffi swipes Cris’s lighter from the table and ignores his token grunt of protest. She uses the lighter to spark at the business end of one of his cigars, which she also steals despite his protests, from the box in the middle of the table. She only does these things as a gesture - a grudging affection that is built upon years of history. He wouldn’t leave them on the table if not to share, otherwise. The cigar lights up. Raffi puffs, sucks in the smoke and grimaces as it menaces her lungs. The haze pours out between her teeth on one heavy exhale. Smooth, but still disgusting. She hands the thing to Cris instead. He takes it, looking smug. 

“So this is the one J.L. wants us to work on?” She points at the sparkling woman on the screen, assessing. “What for?”

Cris moves Raffi’s cigar between his teeth and then plucks it from his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. He laughs smoke in a sharp burst between them before talking. 

“Jesus Raf, you make it sound like he’s asked us to take a hit on her or something.” - Raffi shrugs, it’s not like the old man hasn’t requested anything like that before. They’ve always refused him. They’re not assassins, they’re mercenaries. Pirates, really. There’s a difference in there somewhere. It doesn’t mean that he’s stopped trying. She gives Cris a telling look. 

“Well okay,” says Cris, conceding her point. “Anyway. Her name’s Jurati. Agnes. Big shot scientist out at Daystrom.” He pauses to activate his hand terminal, opening a profile from the institute’s homepage on the screen, where Daystrom lists their best-and-brightests. Agnes’s face glows between them, fawn-like and lovely. Raffi spots the way his eyes explore the scientist’s face and wonders if there’ll be trouble there. 

“- so she’s in charge of this whole cybernetic research section,” Cris is saying, “developing a prototype for synthetic technology that the old man wants us to-” he shrugs at this point, failing to find an alternative that might make the blunt truth sound any better, “-steal.”

Raffi snorts with laughter, wishing that she had a drink in her hand that wasn’t just weak-assed water. “Bitch, please. He what - he wants us to break into Daystrom?” Her eyebrows simply can’t go any higher. If they could, they’d float somewhere near the top of her head. “That place is like-” she doesn’t even have a word to say like what. She settles for “-a nightmare. Fucking impossible!”

Cris has the good grace to look chagrined. 

“Yeah, well. I told him that. You know what he’s like, though. He wasn’t really interested in the details.”

“-or the reality,” Raffi scoffs. 

Cris acknowledges her interruption by tipping the point of his cigar, then sucks in from it. He exhales slowly. Pulls a little face that makes Raffi think uh-oh. This won’t end well. Her eyes narrow. She cuts him off before he can start speaking. 

“Cris. What did you do?”

The edge in Raffi’s tone makes him sit up straighter, squirming in his seat like he’s talking to his mum. The man mumbles something into shirt, pretending to use the neck of it to wipe his mouth. “Hmm-”

Raffi is ruthless, “speak up.”

Groaning, Rios tells her what he did. 

There’s a beat, then Raffi leaves the table with an irritated sigh, taking her hand terminal along with her. 

*

A scruffy, bearded man in a threadbare shirt and old grey jeans is waiting for them at the specified location. Seven shares a look with Elnor and nods him on before her. Elnor goes. His hand drifts to the dagger in his belt, long fingers curled, squaring his shoulders as he walks the few paces closer to meet the man who might be there for them. 

Seven waits while Elnor’s speaking, his Romulan accent thick, though his Federation standard is much clearer than hers. 

“You call for us?” says Elnor, while Seven keeps her distance. Her watchful gaze keeps track, eyes on the bearded man’s moves. 

The bearded man tilts his head, fiddling with something in his pocket before he takes his hand out again. Seven tenses, ready to shout a warning at Elnor. But then he opens his fist, and a clear object dangles down from his palm, thick fingers hooking around a silver chain that lets it swing before him. To-and-fro. Light catches at its edges. 

Seven relaxes, breathing out again. It’s not a weapon.

“You guys from Fenris?” he says, looking at Elnor and nodding in Seven’s direction. 

Seven approaches, her fingers twitch restlessly at her sides, but she doesn’t think the man notices. She stops when she is level with Elnor, then rests her bad hand on her hip. The soft brown leather of her jacket hides it from view. 

“Yes. Fenris Rangers. Contract Service,” she confirms, taking the beacon that’s hanging from his fingers. She scans it with her hand terminal, then hands it back to him, using her good hand all the while. She lifts her eyebrow in question, though he probably can’t see it beneath her headdress, “You are Rios.”

The beacon slides back into his pocket. Elnor shifts on his feet beside her, an anxious shadow. 

Rios gives a half-smile and an awkward nod. His hand goes up to tug at a lock of his hair, and Seven gets the impression he’d be tugging at the brim of his hat. If he had one. “That’s me,” Rios agrees, then takes a quick look at the sky. “Look, I don’t mean to be overcautious, but we really ought to get a move on.” A glance up at the sky again, “security drones. And besides, my associate is waiting for us back at base. She’s ah- well, I hesitate to say eager, but she does want to meet you.- More or less.” He points to a street corner behind him, throwing off whatever concern he seems to have. Terrans are so strange. “Come on,” he says, beckoning them onward, “transport’s parked down that way.”

*

Raffi watches Cris’s runabout pull up outside their hideout with a scowl. It’s not that she particularly dislikes the Fenris Rangers, per se. It’s more that she would prefer to keep their little operation watertight. Just between her and Cris. They tend to work more on the -dodgier- side of the Federation’s draconian laws, in that they tend to bend them regularly. Always. And that’s especially true of when they’re running errands for the old man. Raffi is a naturally suspicious woman, and she almost always feels it wiser not to get others involved. 

There’s a low hiss as the runabout’s door opens. A young man with long black hair tumbles out. He trips to one knee but then rises quickly, brushing the orange sand and thorn seeds from his pants. He’s followed by Cris, swaggering in the lazy heat as usual. And then, -Raffi takes a surprised breath and feels immediately foolish, - probably the most striking person that she has seen in her life steps out onto the weathered concrete, keeping one hand tucked beneath the open edge of her leather jacket. The ground seems hardly worthy. It’s just a bare, flat patch of nothing that’s surrounded by desert sand. Cris’s rust-coloured F17 Kaplan freighter, a large, hulking blob to one side of the landing pad - is nestled in among the rock formations and tinder-dry plants. To the left of it, on a solid dune, is Raffi’s vantage point. Her homey little bungalow with its tiny patio, one room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen that give her all the space she needs. 

Back to the person though. Raffi’s not staring, really. She’s just -looking respectfully. Honestly. The other woman is, okay, not statuesque. She’s about the same height as Cris. But she somehow prowls out of the transport like a predator, stalking the desert around her with careful, deliberate steps. Cautious and defensive. For some reason, Raffi can’t help but find that thrilling. Which, huh. She didn’t know she had a thing for that. Just goes to show what life won’t tell you. Now is not the time. Raffi looks away and tries to get a grip. Despite this, she still finds her palms sweating as the woman approaches, with Rios and the younger man in tow. Act casual. Don’t be strange. Raffi tells herself. She can handle this. 

*

Seven looks up at the little bungalow perched up on the dune that Rios pointed out to her as they pulled up to what he’d called their ‘hideout’ on the ride over. The place is very dusty, and very red. It reminds her of Vashti, where she and Icheb first met Elnor. There’s a woman standing out on the porch that’s wrapped around the front half of the bungalow. A dark pool of shade like a haven. Her skin is a warm brown under the sun, and her hair is tied back in an unruly cloud. Tight curls float everywhere, making a mockery of their physical bonds. She’s squinting stubbornly against the harsh light, even though she’s barely two paces away from the bungalow’s shade. There’s no one else around that Seven can see, and Rios mentioned he had an associate. So. This must be the one. 

The woman wipes her hands against her pants as Seven climbs up onto the porch to meet her. 

“Raffaella,” the dark-skinned woman holds out her hand. Palm facing upwards with her round-nailed fingers slightly curled. The custom is unfamiliar. Seven looks at the outstretched fingers blankly and wonders what the woman is playing at. After a baffled silence in which neither person moves, the woman shrugs and lets her hand hang loosely by her side. It swings there, fingers tapping against her thigh. Was I supposed to inspect it? -Why? Seven wonders. Terrans truly are peculiar. 

“Your hand is nice,” she offers. Because it seems polite. Then she tests the foreign shape of the woman’s name against her tongue, stumbles over it. She can feel a furrow in her brow as she repeats it, haltingly, “n’Dah-fuy-en-neh...”

The woman winces and holds out a silencing hand, using the same long limb that she first offered. There’s grace in the curves of her bicep and forearm. “Uh, never mind. Just Raffi will do.” Her wince is followed by a tiny little smile of good humour. A wrinkled nose. Seven wonders what it was that she found amusing. My Federation Standard, maybe? She should have let Elnor do it -greet this woman, that is. He has a broader vocabulary. The thought makes her jealous, somehow, and she feels satisfied that she took the opportunity to do it first. Without his assistance. Nothing like a bit of practice for perfection.

Seven nods, a small tilt of her head to the side that was once made heavier by elaborate Borg technology. Her eyepiece, cortical array, transmitter. All of it gone now, thanks to the farm. Her head might be lighter, unencumbered by tech. But old habits die hard. She carefully repeats the shorter sounds, “n’Dah-fih.” The other woman smiles. 

Satisfied, Seven forges on with the conversation, determined to pull it all back together. “I am Seven, that is Elnor, there,” she says, gesturing to where the young man is taking stock of their perimeter as he calmly climbs the dune with Rios. The woman, Raffi, hesitates. Concentrating Seven supposes, and waits patiently for her to figure out her accent. 

*  
In spite of all her earlier protests to Cris, when he admitted that he’d called for some Fenris Rangers, Raffi finds herself helplessly charmed by the one who’s before her. Cris and -Elnor, I think she said,- reach the porch just in time for them to hear her telling Seven, “-that’s great, I’m really looking forward to working together. I really admire what you do out there.” At which point, Cris does a double-take at her change of heart, and she cuts him a silencing glare. Mouths the words, “not now.” Feels his smirk upon her back. 

Raffi ignores him and turns her greeting to Elnor. Then she ushers both of them into the patio’s shade. They sit around the outdoor table. Down on brittle plastic chairs. The furniture creaks as people shuffle. Rios joins them shortly, looking insufferably smug. She very generously resists the urge to squash his face in. 

The rangers from Fenris are watching them expectantly. Though there is a quick exchange of glances between them where a lot seems to be said. The younger one touches his headdress as Seven minutely shakes her head. The one hand she seems to favour twitches at the folds of hers and looks away. Her blue eyes flit to the table and up again like nothing happened. With a start Raffi realises what they’re thinking and hurries to correct their apprehensions. Terrans don’t have a stellar reputation, especially with those from other worlds. For a business partnership, it’s not an ideal leg to start on. 

“Oh. Hey, listen don’t worry about-” she traces the shape of a headdress around her neck and face. Plasters on an expression that she hopes is reassuring and sincere. “-all that. It’s not. Needed. We aren’t like most Terrans. You’re okay here.”

Elnor lifts both of his eyebrows at her sentence and looks to Seven, as though he’s asking for permission. There must be some dynamic there. Perhaps Seven is the one in charge. That would make sense, with the way she stalks everywhere. Without waiting for a response from her, Elnor blurts, “You read minds?” in his heavy accent. 

Cris, who’s had slightly more time to get used to these two on their journey over just snorts into his beard at the earnest outburst. Clearly Elnor has said confusing things like this before. 

“What do you m-?” Raffi starts asking, just as Seven lets out a quiet laugh and mutters something to the young man in their own language, clarifying. The syllables dance gracefully off her tongue. Each noise is more lyrical than she sounded when she was struggling over Raffi’s name. It’s just a short little sentence. But in those few seconds Raffi is hopelessly endeared. Cris is going to be merciless about this with her later. She can feel the amusement oozing off him. 

*  
“They’re fine,” Seven says to Elnor in Fenric Romlastha, their common dialect. She stifles her laugh as his earnestness breeds confusion. Presses her lips together into a smirk. “Their customs are strange but maybe we can trust them. They’re not violent, not like most Terrans. I think that’s what she means. Take the scarf off if you like.”

Elnor looks at her, his hands already plucking at the edges of his wrap, pulling it loose “and you?”

Seven shakes her head. Self conscious at the thought of all her scars and implants. Tugs her fingers at the cloth around her face. Keeps her bad hand beneath the table. “No. Maybe later.” When no one is watching. She doesn’t say. 

*  
Elnor twitches off his headdress with a long sigh of relief, revealing ears that taper at the tip - they match his eyebrows. He says something to Seven and the woman shakes her head. Raffi gets the impression that there’s some other reason why she wears her headdress that isn’t based on Terran fear. It makes her curious, but Raffi doesn’t push them any further. 

She pulls out her hand terminal and puts it on the table. A swipe of her fingers turns it on. Then she accesses their ‘mission details,’ as the old man calls them. A map appears on the holoscreen. A schematic of the Daystrom institute, a headshot of Jurati and her credentials, a quick link to the newsreel media file that Cris flicked to her this morning. Raffi starts with Doctor Jurati’s profile, the background to her research and the prototype that J.L. has his heart set on stealing. If the rangers are surprised, they cover their reactions well. Then again, they are essentially contracted mercenaries. This type of work is probably their business as usual. Seven listens with solemn eyes. Raffi can feel the other woman concentrating on her movements as she takes them through Jurati’s profile. To her private mortification, Raffi finds herself stuttering on one or two occasions when she meets Seven’s intent gaze across the table, and forgets what she was saying. The other woman rarely looks away.

When she gets to their tactics for Daystrom, thankfully, Cris has to take over. After all, getting the rangers to help them break into the complex was mostly his idea. “What we were thinking,” Cris is saying now, addressing Seven, “is that you will be our ‘getaway driver’. Your Ranger cell said you were an excellent pilot.”

“I am the best,” Seven agrees. A blush that Raffi guesses is pleasure, despite her confidence when she confirms it. Is she not used to compliments? But there’s no time to ponder as Seven continues, “we have a small starship. It is a Corsair.”

Raffi frowns, “Hang on, wait. No - Cris, aren’t Corsairs designed for extraplanetary use?”

“It is fast,” Seven says. The reassurance in her tone suggests that she misunderstood Raffi’s question. “We have warp speed. Also-” she gets a wrinkle at the bridge of her nose and the rangers confer with each other rapidly. Raffi hears Seven try out a word, mimicking Elnor’s answer. Then she turns back to them, and says carefully in her wonderful accent, “maneuverability.” She points to the sky, the open air with fluffy clouds. “In space.”

Finally, Raffi’s meaning clicks. Cris’s face falls, which makes the rangers look confused. “Aw, shit,” he says beneath his breath. “Using the Corsair in the city will melt everything behind it into goo from the exhaust plume.” His beardy face looks so crestfallen that Raffi rests her hand upon his shoulder in commiseration. Her fingers give a little squeeze. “We’ve got other transport,” she shrugs, “the runabout?”

Cris runs his fingers through his beard, considering. He shrugs and looks at Seven. “Well it’s as good as any. Not as zippy as I’d like, but-” his elbows touch the table, head tilted to the side, “can you fly it?”

*  
Seven eyes the little cruiser dubiously. It’s hardly a speed demon, but she’s one of the Fenris Ranger’s foremost pilots for a very good reason. She still can’t help her pout of disapproval as she concedes that she will need to take it for a few test runs to get an accurate feel for the controls.

“How about I take you for a little test ride in it tomorrow?” says Raffi abruptly, once Seven mentions she’ll need to practice. Raffi follows up with an embarrassed cough when her suggestion comes out a little loud. And, with more innuendo than she intended. Beside her, Rios snorts and leans in to Raffi’s side, muttering something against her ear that is too fast and low for Seven to understand. Raffi swats him away, blushing furiously and rolling her eyes. Denying whatever it was that he told her quite vehemently. They may be trustworthy, but they’re still very strange. Seven blinks at them, and accepts Raffi’s offer with a nod and tiny smile.

Elnor pipes up from his corner of the table. “And me? What do I do?” he asks. Somehow always more eager than Seven feels is humanly possible. Then again, Elnor is Elnor. Nature does not always apply. 

Fending off Raffi’s swipe, Rios chuckles and points at Elnor, moving the hand terminal out of the way and shutting it down. It seems that their briefing is done for the day. “Security detail. Or, bodyguard.” Seven gets the impression that he’s making this up as he goes, but a quick glance at Elnor shows that he either hasn’t noticed, or doesn’t mind. 

“I trained to be a warrior,” Elnor says proudly. Then just as quickly, “but I was thrown out.” A shadow passes over his face as quickly as a storm, and then it’s gone again. Brightening, he says, “However I am an expert with my fists and sword. Seven has it in her pack.”

He beams at her, and she has to fight the urge to shake her head. “I will not fail you,” he says. 


	3. Stargazing

Cris finds her contemplating a glass of gin that is mixed with ice and a long splash of tonic. Bitter and sharp and refreshing. She’s sitting out on her porch with her feet propped up on the table. Long legs with booted feet crossed at the ankles. Staring out at  _ La Sirena _ ’s hulking shadow in the darkened sand, beneath a sky of stars. Her chair creaks ungratefully as Raffi puts more pressure on its back legs. She tips her glass at him, hears him help himself to something from her drinks cabinet - a worn old trolley, really. Ice clinks softly against glass. A sip, and grunt of satisfaction. Hears him sit down. 

“The rangers settled in ok?” Raffi asks, well aware that he’s burning to tease her about her clear interest in Seven. It’s been a while. That, and the small part where she’d been absolutely against involving anyone else in their half-assed plan. Right up until she laid eyes on the other woman. A good ribbing is probably deserved. But she’s not against making him work for it.

Her friend mimics her posture. His ankles swing up onto the table, knees flexed. His chair gives a groan that’s even louder and more cantankerous than hers. She’s going to have to look into replacing this outdoor furniture one day. There’s a small lamp above their heads that’s attracting the insects in a whirling prickle. Little wings roaring as they hurl themselves against the light globe in ecstasy. 

He takes a sip of - probably rum again, it’s one of his weaknesses- and hisses in air between his teeth. His stretched cheeks bristle the whiskers of his beard. They tap their glasses together briefly. Reclining back again.

“Yeah, they’re settled in fine.” He gives her a cheeky little look from the corner of his eye, nodding towards their starship, a large shape nearly three stories high and just as wide. She’s just a little freighter, compared to other spacecraft, but she has an imposing profile. “They’re in the crew quarters. Seven chose the one up near the transport bay.”

Raffi rolls her eyes when Cris waggles his eyebrows. Brings her gin and tonic to her lips. “Mm-hmm. How fascinating. And why are you telling me this?”

The hand not holding his glass flicks her shoulder, “You like her. The ranger. Seven of Nine, I think, was her full name on the contract.”

Seven of Nine. Raffi keeps that tucked away in her head. The ice in her glass clinks. “If I just come clean and admit it, will you leave me alone?”

“Ha - You know me better than that.”

“Cris.”

“Alright, fine. I won’t be your wingman.”

Her gin and tonic is all gone. Raffi considers fixing another one. How many is this now? Two- or is it three? Her brain floats pleasantly. Perhaps just water. “You’re not my wingman Cris. You’re an idiot.”

“Perhaps, “ he nods. “But wingman sounds cooler.”

*

Seven sits on the bed in the room she was shown to and stretches out comfortably. A reluctant smile. She unwraps her headdress in the privacy of the bedroom and shakes her hair out. Contemplates a shower in the ensuite, only a little bit regretful that there’s no bath. 

Elnor was excited to have his very own bedroom. Used to sleeping in shared quarters in the nunnery, and then taking whatever arrangement they could manage after the farm. Life has been unkind to both of them. Still, Elnor bears it well. Seven was tempted to remind him not to get used to it, as he grinned at her from his doorway, telling her about his ensuite and his bed, and other things that she could see for herself, like the well-equipped replicators in the mess hall. But then she couldn’t bring herself to do it, when he looked at her like that. Cheeks dimpled and eyes wide. Let him have a moment of happiness. He deserves it. 

The bed  _ is _ nice, Seven admits. She tries to reach either end of it, lying flat on her back with fingers outstretched. She’s almost made it until her bad arm pulls. Something in the wiring must be wrong because it sends a twinge of discomfort down her back. She shrugs it off, rolling the joint until it sits more or less comfortably. Damn. She taps the wall with her good hand anyway and then folds both arms over her stomach. Rubs at the shoulder of her bad arm with her thumb. 

She wonders what everyone else is doing. Well, okay, she wonders specifically what the woman, Raffi is doing. Because there’s something about her that Seven likes. She’s interesting. Though Seven’s not entirely sure why she has that idea. They haven’t really talked much about anything other than their mission, even over dinner. I just want to talk to her. She seems nice. Friendly. That’s all. 

She sits up on her bed and checks her hand terminal for the time. It’s not that late just yet. She would still be awake. If not, I can always go for a nighttime walk. Stretch my legs a bit. Impulsively, Seven picks up her wrap, arranges it around her face and hair. Perhaps a bit less carefully than usual. 

Rios grins at her as she’s walking up the dune towards the bungalow. He’s heading back down to the starship from the opposite direction. 

She returns his greeting with a curious nod and wonders what he’s smiling at. 

*

Raffi hears Cris’s voice float back up the dune, talking to someone who’s heading up the other way. She gives a little groan, even as her breath catches when she realises it was Seven who is coming up the sand.  _ God, that swagger _ . She lets herself indulge in Seven’s prowl. The way her hips swing as she’s climbing the steps. The yellow warmth of the porch light hitting her thighs. Her tight pants hug the curve of muscle there.  _ Heaven help me.  _ Cris will be annoying later when he asks her why the other woman was visiting her so late at night. Inevitably. 

Speaking of which.

Raffi drags her feet down from the table as Seven steps cautiously up onto the porch. “Uh, hi. You having a good evening? How’s the bedroom?”

She watches Seven fiddle with her headscarf, looking around sheepishly. “The room is good.” Seven hums a little, thinking. Raffi has noticed that she does it when she’s remembering a word. Pulling something unfamiliar from her vocabulary. Occasionally she asks Elnor for help. Federation Standard lessons were part of his warrior training. He said so at dinner. Seven finds what she was seeking. “It is lovely. Nice bed.”

Raffi blushes, thinking about it. She’s had far too much to drink. Just one more gin and tonic with Cris. It was fine. She was just gonna watch the stars a little and then go to bed. Then again, she wasn’t banking on an evening chat with Seven.  _ Now _ she’s had one too many. 

“Oh, oh that’s nice.”

Seven looks towards Cris’s empty chair. “Would you mind company? I am not tired yet.”

Raffi looks up at her. Realises that Seven’s headdress is a little looser this time, and that she can see more of the other woman’s face. The curve of her cheek and the red of her lips. There are scars and metal ridges surrounding one eye.  _ Huh _ . Waves Seven into the chair. “Sure thing babe,” _ \- Babe? What is wrong with you?  _ Fuck.  _ That’s the gin talking.  _ \- “have a seat right here. I was just looking at the stars.” Raffi forges onwards to cover her embarrassment and points towards the drink trolley. “Drinks are there if you’re thirsty. I’ve uh- had too much.” She gives her guest a wry smile and points at her gin glass. Ice is melting at the bottom. “No more for me.”

Seven actually smiles. A muted laugh that briefly shows her teeth. “No more for me too then. I just want to sit with you. Look at stars.” 

*

Seven leans back into the plastic chair beside Raffi. The stars are bright enough, but the glow of the lamp keeps interfering. It’s hard to relax when she keeps needing to swat flying insects off her face. When a large beetle finally flies directly into Raffi’s head and gets its legs frantically tangled in her hair, Seven has reason enough to suggest turning the outside light off. “We could see the stars better?” And they’d be harassed by fewer insects. 

After she untangles the bug,-beetle? It has a shiny brown carapace, those wing covers. A beetle then. Raffi takes a minute to process Seven’s suggestion. She cups the beetle in her palm for a moment before it recovers its composure and takes off, looping. Something about her gentleness makes Seven’s chest ache. Or that could just be her bad arm again. 

“The light?” Raffi is saying, and Seven realises that perhaps she was not concentrating on the stars above them. Her attention focused somewhere closer to earth. The insight makes her pulse thrum faster. It means nothing at all. 

*

Raffi curses to herself as Seven has to repeat her question about turning the porch light off. It makes sense, as she unravels a beetle from her hair. The stars would show up brighter, and they wouldn’t be ground zero for the hottest insect party this side of the Atlantic. To be honest, she wasn’t really looking at the stars, and she’s pretty sure that this time Seven actually noticed her...noticing.  _ Oh God, never mind. _ It’s not like her interest can lead anywhere.  _ But keep your fantasies to yourself, for fuck’s sake.  _

“Sure, I’ll go turn it off,” she says, standing up too quickly. Her knees hit the table, making her curse out loud. “Shit!” And she hobbles to the switch beside the door. Closes the porch light off, plunging them into relative darkness. A few sad thuds as the insects lose their way and crash into the awning. They rattle off again. 

She returns to her chair. Hands rubbing at her kneecaps, because fuck, she hit the table  _ really _ hard. Damned thing has an edge to it. And sits down. It’s probably all the gin she’s had ploughing down her better judgement. But Raffi has an urge to talk. The question is innocent enough. 

“How did you meet Elnor?”

Seven doesn’t look at her. Her face stays angled up towards the stars. Her features are hidden in the shadows of her head scarf. 

“He was a worker. From the farm.”

Raffi kind of regrets bringing it up, whatever this farm is. Seven doesn’t seem to like it. But of course, she’s loosely drunk, and a total moron. So she forges ahead. 

“What’s that?”

Seven frowns, lips pursed. Considers her. “It is- hmm. A place to go. For x-B to get better. Have implants taken away. So they say.” A frown. “It is not how the uh,” she struggles for a word, “description says it will be.” A heavy pause, “They get away with murder. It is not really called the farm. That is the name it is known by, more and more.”

Suddenly the scars and the metal over Seven’s face make sense. And, Raffi suspects, the reason why the other woman keeps one hand hidden, too.  _ Well done, idiot.  _ What a perfect method of making friends. Dredging up their trauma. She should know better. 

Well. An Ex-Borg then. Raffi has never met anyone like that before. 

“I’m sorry. For what it’s worth?” she offers stupidly. Not knowing what else to say or do. Then sighs. “Look, I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s uncomfortable. None of my business.” She gestures helplessly at her empty gin and tonic. “I’ve had a lot of drinks.”

*

“It is okay,” Seven says, and to her surprise, she realises that she means it. That it is okay, sharing these things with Raffi, even though she’s barely met her.  _ I am not judged _ . “It is part of the story. You asked how I met Elnor.” She chances a reassuring smile, though she’s aware that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Raffi will understand it, she assumes. “I am happy to continue,” she says in offering.

Raffi bites her lip, obviously curious but awkwardly polite. Seven finds that strangely endearing. “If you want to, sure. Just. Only if you’re comfortable.”

For a second Seven shuts her eyes. Opens them again. “We were sent there. Myself and Icheb. He was important to me, like - a son?” She wonders if that’s the correct word. Thinks it might have the same broad meaning. Raffi doesn’t look like she’s confused. “We were excited to go. Because when you are x-B, it is like...being heavy. I do not know how to say the word.”

Raffi takes a guess, “exhausting?”

Seven wrinkles her nose, still not quite understanding. “I do not know the word. I am sorry.” 

A little shrug, and Raffi waves away her apology, “Never mind.”

“The reality of the farm was - bad,” she says bluntly, forcing the memory out. She knows that Raffi is watching her, but Seven can’t bring herself to meet her gaze. “Few who go there survive. Elnor was a - hmm, a guard there. He helped us get out.”

Raffi is quiet for a long moment, and Seven worries that perhaps she has told her too much. But then Raffi breathes out with pursed lips. Shakes her head like she’s agitated. “I’m glad you did,” she says. “I don’t really know what to say to that. Is - is that why you use-” she gestures shyly at Seven’s wrap. 

“This?” she lifts her good hand up and touches it. The hanging edge of her headdress. “Yes. A bit. Sometimes other people do not like it - the scarring. It scares them. It is - easier to hide.”

“Huh. yeah. Sometimes we are useless,” Raffi concedes. Then, “sorry, I guess this wasn’t the relaxing company you were hoping for.”

Seven picks up on the other woman’s helpful offering of an end to their line of conversation. She takes it gracefully, thinking of a Terran saying that Elnor told her before. Something like ‘show me yours and I’ll show you mine,’ though she’s sure it had a different context. The gist of it makes sense though. 

She gives Raffi a smile.

“I came to sit with you. Tell me something about your life.”


End file.
